Before the Song Dies
by Dulcineah
Summary: A short bit of Roger/Mimi angst. Reviews welcomed and adored.


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Before the Song Dies

by Dulcey

Author's Notes: Not much to say here. Rather angsty, so be warned. I've been wanting to write this story for awhile now, hope it's as good written out as it seemed in my head. Any lyrics belong to Jonathan Larson, not me.

He left me his guitar.

For a long time I let it sit in the corner, half hidden behind a pile of boxes because I couldn't bear to touch it. It seemed sacreligious, in a way, for me to strum those strings, to expect the same kind of magic as when Roger played it. I knew I was being ridiculous. Roger was dead. His guitar would never sound that way again.

I knew it would have happened sooner or later. He had HIV, after all. Despite all the advances of modern medicine, no matter how long Magic Johnson could live without his disease betraying him and morphing into full-blown AIDS, it wouldn't save the life the two of us had. Even the best money could buy couldn't save Roger and me, and God knows we couldn't afford the best money could buy.

So we waited, huddled together on the winter nights in our heatless apartment, desperately hoping the warmth of our bodies pressed together could keep away the chill of the phantom that was stalking us. On the worst nights I could hear it, eating away at me from inside, killing me slowly. On those nights, even the strength of Roger's embrace couldn't make me feel safe.

I was supposed to go first. It just made sense. I'd had the virus longer, after all, almost a full year more than him. I was the one who almost died on that Christmas Eve, before Roger brought me back with his song and with his love. I was the one everyone worried about, poor, fragile Mimi who couldn't go out without a warm jacket, who couldn't go to bed without a hot water bottle at her feet. 

Not to mention, I wanted to go first. Selfish, yes, but I didn't want to live in a world that didn't have Roger. And he'd promised me. The bastard had fucking promised me that he'd always be there to take care of me. 

Tears dripped down my cheeks. My hands clenched into fists, digging my nails into my palm. "Damn you, Roger," I swore, surprised at how strong my voice sounded, at the intensity of my anger. "You fucking liar."

I sprang out of bed, throwing the covers onto the floor. "Damn you to hell," I shouted, grabbing the guitar from the corner and swinging it at the floor. The wood splintered with a loud cracking noise. "You bastard!"

By the time I was finished, the guitar lay on the floor in pieces, silenced forever. "You fucking shithead," I tried to scream, but the fury was gone, replaced with an overwhelming sense of exhaustion. I crumpled to the floor beside the shattered guitar, and that's the last thing I remember until I woke up here.

My friends have been by to see me. Maureen had sobbed dramatically until Joanne elbowed her. Collins held my hand and talked to me, although I was so out of it I couldn't make out a word he was saying. And Mark, his eyes large and sad behind his glasses, and the note of despair in his voice as he pleaded with me. "Mimi, please, try."

How could I try? What did I have left? And I was tired again, so I closed my eyes, dropping immediately into the welcome darkness of deep sleep.

It was our anniversary. Roger had band practice, but he was coming home early to celebrate with me. I'd spent all morning cooking and all afternoon picking out an outfit that would be sure to make his jaw drop when he saw me. He said he'd be home by five o'clock. 

I had the table set by four thirty, and the food done by quarter till five. Roger wasn't back by five fifteen, so I put it back in the oven to keep it warm for him. By five thirty, I was starting to get mad. He'd probably gone out for drinks with his friends. He'd probably forgotten that this was our anniversary. Stupid bastard, couldn't think of anyone besides himself.

At seven o'clock, I heard a knock on my door. I flung it open angrily, ready to rip into him for being so late. But it wasn't Roger. It was Mark, and Collins, and Maureen, and they told me to sit down, that they had bad news.

I think I'd figured it out even before they told me, by the way Maureen kept sniffling every thirty seconds. Collins was the one who did most of the talking. They'd had two policemen up at the loft who'd told them. 

Roger had been walking home on Avenue A. He'd stopped briefly at a florist, to buy flowers. "It was your anniversary, wasn't it?" Mark asked, taking my hand, then dropping it at my glare. He was talking about Roger in the past tense. I knew this had to be important, but my mind couldn't seem to grasp it.

"He never saw the car coming," Collins continued. He was crossing against the light, wasn't really paying attention to where he was going. Someone called 911, but it was too late. When they got him to the hospital, he was already dead.

"No," I whispered. There had to be some mistake. Roger couldn't be dead. He'd called me just this morning, to say he loved me and he couldn't wait to see me tonight. Our T-cell counts had both been good for the last two months. Everything was fine. This had to be some joke.

"What kind of flowers?" My voice sounded hoarse and cracked. Maureen dabbed at her eyes with a kleenex.

Mark and Collins exchanged glances. "A dozen pink roses," Mark answered.

Pink roses. My favorite flower. Roger was the only one who knew that, and of course he would have brought them for me, and he was really dead and I couldn't think about this now because I didn't want to cry in front of everyone except I didn't think I could cry and what sort of horrible person was I because I couldn't cry when I found out my boyfriend was dead?

I turned my head, wincing with the pain a simple movement brought on. Visiting hours in the hospital ended at eight, and I was left alone with the multitude of machines monitoring my vital signs. In my more lucid moments I'd caught bits of phrases, "low T-cell count", "HIV encephalopathy, cortical atrophy". I didn't have to be a doctor to know what everything meant. 

Then I heard it, a faint, trickling stream of melody. I closed my mind and tried to will myself to stop it. But it only grew louder, and with the guitar playing came Roger's voice.

Your eyes, as we said our goodbyes

Can't get them out of my mind

And I find I can't hide

From your eyes

I had more energy now. I lifted myself up to a sitting position and pulled back my blankets, swinging my legs out of bed. My gait was a little shaky, and I grabbed onto a chair for support as I limped to where I heard the music. The closer I got, the easier walking became. I didn't hurt anymore, and I felt stronger than I had in months, ever since Roger's death.

I'd seen the tunnel once before, on that cold Christmas Eve when I'd almost died in Roger's apartment. I was, as I was then, unafraid, walking down it toward the light at the end, ready to see what was waiting for me on the other side.

Someone was standing in my path. They were lit from behind, so I couldn't see who they were. But the music continued to grow louder, and as I came closer, there was no doubt left in my mind.

"Roger," I breathed.

The music stopped, and I felt his hand brush my cheek. It was warm and solid, just as his touch always had been. "Oh God, Mimi, I've missed you."

"I've missed you too," I whispered, tears blurring my eyes. "Don't make me go back."

Roger shook his head. "I didn't come for that. I came to bring you home."

I burst into tears and threw my arms around Roger. "I've missed you so much," I sobbed.

"It's okay," he soothed me. "We've got forever to be together now."

He let me go when my tears stopped, and took my hand in his. "Are you ready?"

"Just a minute," I whispered, glancing back to the other end of the tunnel. If I squinted, I could see my body lying there in the darkness. My friends would be upset, but they had each other. They would get through this together.

I turned back to Roger. "I'm ready."

He put his arm around my shoulders. I snuggled against him, and we walked toward the light together.


End file.
